The Virtues of Spiked Cider
by Burnedtoasty
Summary: Cain glowers, pouts, and lurks, while two princesses and a glitchy inventor have a rather... dastardly, if tipsy, conversation.


**Disclaimer**: _I, in no way, shape, or form, own the Tin Man© Sci-Fi original mini-series or the characters it contains. All publicly recognizable characters are copyrighted to Sci-Fi, and the respective artists/writers/et cetera. No infringement intended._

**Continuity**: Post-finale.

**Characters**: Wyatt Cain, DG, Glitch, Azkadellia

**Warnings**: Vaguely implied might-be-possible "For Science!" slash.

**Summary**: Cain glowers, pouts, and lurks, while two princesses and a glitchy inventor have a rather... dastardly, if tipsy, conversation.

**Author's Note**: I was thinking about waiting for the holiday season to post this puppy up, but I'm lazy and forgetful, so, hey, why take chances? Happy really, really, Walmart-style-early holidays, folks. Criticism encouraged, technical points preferable.

--

"Oh, you're _wicked_, _wicked_ girls!" Despite his condemnation to the contrary, Glitch leaned in closer, attempting to smother a giggle with one hand. DG – with a grin fit to match the spoken accusation – obligingly whispered all the more of her tale, her teeth flashing merrily as she, in an absurdly animated way only accessible to the heavily inebriated, continued on with whatever sordid anecdote she had dredged up. Beside her, attempting to appear regal and distant – and, for the record, failing miserably – Azkadellia, too, listened in, hiding her somewhat loopy smile behind the lip of her cup. An unwilling snort sent a light spray of liquid raining down on her mostly forgotten roast, which she hastily dabbed at (mostly missing her intended target) with a handy napkin.

DG guffawed, crooked her finger in a 'come hither' gesture, and spoke into her lopsided sister's ear. Azkadellia blushed, glanced wide-eyed in a leftward direction, then dipped her head, deeply fascinated with the pattern of cider droplets on the tablecloth. Triumphant in her dastardly plot, DG righted herself, swaying uncertainly about, and then returned her attention back on her rambling story.

Cain didn't like it when they acted like that. It always ended in trouble and nothing but.

The ex-Tin Man hunched lower in his seat, the lumpy cushion hugging snugly against his hips, and broodingly brought his admittedly watered down cider to his lips, though he didn't drink. The amber liquid swirled in its polished holder, catching the innumerable lights and sending them as sparkling motes throughout the golden cider.

His eyes narrowed in thought, trying to follow the motion of their lips to guess at the topic at hand. The narrator was impossible to tell – her hand blocked almost all of her mouth, save when she paused for a swig of her drink.

They shouldn't have given her spiked cider, he thought. It was a common drink for festivities, certainly, but it had ill effects on the unwary, and she was clearly inexperienced. At first it just a pleasant buzz, a curious sense of warmth and a touch of giddiness – harmless, and it loosened both the tongue and mood for such affairs as the Snow Gala. But soon after, if one drank imprudently, one found themselves punch drunk and in… problematic situations. It was all the worse that she was nobility – and still a child to boot.

No, not a child, he reminded himself sharply. Old enough to make her own decisions, without his meddling and hovering about. Even if that choice was getting hopelessly intoxicated during her first (official) public appearance as royalty.

That was, after all, why he was seated so far away.

He wasn't going to meddle. Oh, no. It was her life. Let her get her first taste of a hangover, and his meddling would be done without him so much as lifting a finger. Hell and high water, however, couldn't keep him from hovering.

He frowned, swirling his cup again. He _had_ to hover. She didn't understand all of the O.Z., yet, and thought that, now that order had been restored within the aristocratic ranks, the rest of the world would follow accordingly. That no one would judge her harshly, no one would be staring with hawk eyes at her every faltering move, more than ready to swoop down and usurp the fragile new peace in their kingdom.

He'd tried explaining that ugly little fact to her, earlier. Quite politely and eloquently, he had thought. She, in turn, had claimed to be a Grown Woman™, being perfectly 'Capable of Making Her Own Choices', and, besides – and this was the real kicker – Glitch would _watch out for her_.

Shifting again, he snorted into his cup, then grudgingly set it aside. Fat lot of good that had done her.

Moodily, he shifted his attention to the so-called watching-outer in question. Oh, yes, Glitch had been the perfect choice for the role of the 'responsible adult'. A marvelous addition to their drunken trio, the very epitome of reasonable logic and sound judgment. Clearly, _clearly_, he was the choice for all young, naïve princesses everywhere to trust for a well informed thought process: _Glitch_. His very name synonymous with prudent moderation.

Moderation indeed. He was more smashed than the other two put together.

Cain had to admit, though: the headcase could toss back like a longtime pro.

_Speaking of tossing back_. With thinly veiled jealousy, he watched as DG took another generous swig of her drink (_Let's see how much she likes it when it's coming up the other way!_) and gesticulate expansively, encompassing some large, no-doubt saucy notion. Her boon companions tittered and wibbled, ostensibly demure and mortified by her candid narrative, but listening with rapt attention nonetheless.

He didn't dare even try the spiked cider. _Someone_ had to be sober to clean up their mess afterward. And, Gods knew, once he got one lick of that heady elixir, he wouldn't stop. He'd always had a soft spot for cider, and it had been far too long since he had sat down with the intention of getting raving drunk. So, with a heavy, reluctant heart, he had refused the meandering waiters' offers of stronger drink, and satisfied himself with only the plain cider made for children.

His eyes drifted downward. Well, maybe not the only consolation.

The Palace cookies, as it turned out, were just as good as rumors claimed, and – he thought, taking another from the heaped pile before him – quite possibly addictive.

--

"I," Glitch declared impressively, staring with vacant fascination at a fork laid carelessly before him. His bottom lip wibbled, trying to pull itself in several directions at once, and he tugged absently at a particularly springy stray curl tickling his forehead. His long fingers plucked at a loose thread in his new coat. He blinked.

DG's elbow dug into his side, prompting him to jump, and blearily twist about to stare at her, affronted. "What?"

"Well?" The intoxicated princess grunted in a most unladylike fashion, her breath smelling strongly of apples.

Glitch blinked owlishly, struggling with what was left of his mind to slog through the general fuzzy fizziness (fizzy fuzziness?) that were his thoughts to decipher what, precisely, she meant. When his somewhat-less-than-stone-cold-sober mind replied, quite unequivocally, that it had no idea what they were on about, and that it was fairly certain that much of his blood had been replaced by cider, he slurred, "Well, what?"

"You were sayin' somethin'." DG flapped one hand, in much the same manner a lamed, half-witted chicken might pump its wing. "Somethin' 'bout _pants_."

He squinted, struggling through the haze –

"I _think_," He crowed triumphantly, slamming one loose fist against the lip of the table – though he'd been aiming for the more solid region – as the lonely thought came back to him, "That he's so cranky because he wears those _tight_ pants all the time." Chivalrously, he waited for DG's cackling to pitter out to half-sniffled sobs of laughter, and continued grandiosely, "Honestly, how many men do you see running about like that? It has to have some psy-psycho-_psychological_ effect." He pantomimed a running man, leering stupidly at that damned fork that, at some point or another, had decided to get its teeth caught up in his sleeve. "Can't be good for circulation." He added chastely, pulling the utensil free, waving it like a conductor's baton.

"Maybe someone needs to take the pants _off_," Azkadellia purred smoothly, studying her nails with a great, feigned air of noble snobbishness. "And he'd loosen up."

Already slowed by the vast amount of spiked cider they'd ingested, both Glitch and DG stared at her, stymied by her nonchalant delivery. Reasoning through the words, they first began to snigger nervously, then outright double over with giddy laughter, while Azkadellia affected a self-satisfied look much similar to a cat that has just caught a particularly pretty bird, and left it charmingly in the middle of someone's pillow.

Glitch gasped for air, clutching at his midsection. "You're _wicked_!" He managed to wheeze between chortles, though his cheeks had gone unsettlingly red. It was a fight not to glance in the sulking Tin Man's direction. "Wicked, wicked girls, the pair of you."

"So I've heard," Azkadellia said graciously, the very model of matronly detachment.

"Oh, Az, Az," DG moaned, her laughter now paining her. She slung an arm over her sibling's shoulder, crooning, "Where have you been all my life?"

Azkadellia's mouth turned upward in a smirk, but she declined comment, picking at her cold roast.

"Ugh, I think I'm a li'l tipsy," DG suddenly blurted, resting her forehead against the stiff back of Azkadellia's chair. "Maybe I had too much t'drink."

"Oh. Oh no." Glitch murmured, staring at her with wide, troubled eyes. "I think I was supposed to do something about that. Stop it from happening."

DG glowered at the universe in general, lurching upright and swinging about to stare at the cringing headcase. "By who?" Then, understanding collided with her liquor soaked mind, causing her to whip her head about and glare in a very pointed direction. "Cap'n Tightpants?"

"Yes," Glitch said, then paused, brow crinkling. "Wait. No. Oh, no. I don't think I was supposed to tell you that. Pretend I didn't."

"I already told him that 'm an adult 'n' I can do it if I wanna. Yeah? Yeah." She whined, ignoring him completely as she began to totter to her feet to give the Tin Man and all his new twins a piece of her rather foggy mind. "I _told_ him."

"Wait, DG, please," Glitch begged piteously, wrapping both spindly arms about her midsection. "I wasn't supposed to tell you, he told me not to an' I forgot and _please_, _please_, don't tell him! Pretend I didn't, please?"

She frowned, lips puckering with both thought and thwarted fury. "Well…" She began haltingly, before sighing and grousing, with great disinclination, "A'right, Glitch. You didn't." And she promptly fell back in her seat, on some distant, higher plane of thought relieved he had stopped her battle charge. Given the way the room had jiggled as soon as she had risen, she didn't think she would have made it all the way across the massive dining chamber standing. Carefully, she extracted the wiry arms from around her waist, and patted the headcase consolingly on one shoulder.

Glitch blinked at her, deeply befuddled. "Didn't what?"

"Never mind. 'S'not important," She patted him again, reaching clumsily for her drink with the opposite hand. Let the lawman pout and watch – she'd give him a good show. Yeah. "To, uh. To stuff." She declared, throwing back her head and _mostly_ managing to get the majority of the liquid in her mouth rather than on her dress.

Azkadellia 'hmph'ed very softly, thus gaining the drunken duos wandering attention. She'd been speculatively watching the sprig of garnish spin between her fingers during their exchange, deep in thought. Solemnly, she tilted her head to regard them, one eyebrow arching up speculatively. "You do know, with the question of mentality and the relative tightness of pants," she began, sagaciously, "There is one question that is both vitally important and completely overlooked."

"Wuhssat?" DG grunted.

With a certain, stoic reserve, she unflinchingly looked them straight in the eyes, and intoned: "The question of who is going to _remove_ the pants."

The three went quiet, feeling they were on the edge of some deep, philosophical well and having not a clue as to where the depths might plunge.

"Well…" DG began, staring hard at the tablecloth. "That _is_ a big question. I don't think I'm quite smashed enough to think about that right now."

"It's a perfectly reasonable question. It goes hand in hand with our theory." Azkadellia argued, elegant eyebrows drawing low. "We need an answer. Leaving such a question unsolved is, is… well, it's not right. Gaining knowledge and all."

"For science," Glitch said gravely, nodding to himself. "Sacrifices for the greater good."

"Exactly," Azkadellia affirmed, looking smug. "Exactly."

"I think," The lone male of their trio declared, quite seriously, "That I _am_ drunk enough to answer this mystery. For science."

"My hero," DG chortled, wiping her mouth on her sleeve (much to the horror of a nearby server) and teetering to her feet. Setting her jaw with determination, she held out her arms and opened and closed her fingers in a childish 'gimme' gesture, looking quite the part of a grizzled general about to face uncertain combat. "Come on. The night is young, and we are tipsy, and things must be _done_."

"I find your word choice eerily appropriate," Azkadellia murmured, hiding the comment behind a courtly cough.

Ignorant of the small joke, DG continued to flex her fingers, while Glitch fumbled about, confused as to how, exactly, his new (and soon-to-be-tattered) coat had become caught up in the frill of tablecloth, and where his various eating utinsels had gone off to. He mumbled something nonsensical, fretted, then promptly broke the thread of his new button, thus freeing himself from the dastardly clutches of the obnoxiously delicate tablecloth.

He and Azkadellia rose, using DG's as support –

But, as she was not so steady herself, the three went down as quickly as a trio of clubbed chickens, sprawling ignobly when they hit the ground.

DG was out on impact, snoring softly into the carpet, already drooling a little out the corner of her lips, while Azkadellia tittered embarrassedly, fighting valiantly with her expansive skirts as she tried to crawl away from their heap. There was a flurry of motion beside them, courtiers and servers scampering about but doing little to help. Hands wrung anxiously. Waiters gave each other pained glances. The aristocrats politely pretended to pretend to ignore the graceless mound of royalty.

Glitch reached out, dragging the nearest, white-vested waiter close, and fervently whispered (quite loudly): "Don't tell Cap'n Tightpants what happened. He's very grumpy, and he has bad circulation." Then, flopped back bonelessly, quite unconscious before his mostly-empty head hit the floor.

From across the room, a rather self-satisfied Cain patted his belly with a contented sigh, downing the last cookie.

Definitely addictive.

-**Epilogue**-

It was, all in all, a splendid Snow Gala, the best in recent memory. Quite festive, and, in the spirit of the obscenely rich and jovial, quite over the top as far as celebrations went. Being as such an event had not been hosted for some years, no one complained of the extraneous snowflakes, or outrageous amounts of streamers. The aristocrats, having had an excellent time, even declined to gossip about the outlandish behavior of their reinstalled heir apparent, and quietly shushed any who dared begin to breach the topic.

As the party wound down, and people began to trickle out, a world-weary Cain had wandered to the Royal party's centermost table, directing a small contingent of soldiers to take the drunken princesses up to their respective rooms, while he himself dragged a cider-soaked inventor off to his cluttered rooms. Along the way, he got to play a merry hell with the half-brained lunatic he called Glitch asking him about blood pressure and what he thought of sacrifice for the greater good.

He noted that the inebriated ex-Advisor had an unhealthy obsession with plucking at his pant leg.

As it turned out, DG herself was quite fine and cheerful the next morning, having enough of a grasp of magic to simply will away her own hangover.

Cain, on the other hand, found himself hunched in the corner in misery, after finding that cookies, much to his dismay, taste nothing remotely close to what they _originally_ did coming back up.

All in all, it was a lovely holiday, and everyone involved fervently hoped, thereafter, that it would never come again.


End file.
